Love In The Time Of Apps (7 page)

Sweating, with his stomach churning and heart pounding, Goodwin woke with a start. He had the sense that it was nearly morning and that he had slept at least six hours. The little red digital clock light on his cable box, however, told him otherwise. It was 11:45 pm. His sleep had lasted for less than 40 minutes and he was now very wide-awake. The rush of anger and adrenalin that absorbed Goodwin throughout the day overtook him again like a fever.

“What the hell am I going to do now?”

He paced, watched television, paced some more, stood in the middle of his living room and, as loudly as he could, cursed Sheila, then cursed Sydney Maxine, and then just cursed. His primal screams were actually cathartic in a way, and each time he repeated the exercise he
felt slightly better. He was on his fourth round of cursing and midway into “mother- fu..,” when he abruptly stopped, turned, walked into his den, and turned on his computer.

Within the narrow horizontal search rectangle provided by Google, Goodwin typed “revenge,” deleted that and entered, “sweet revenge,” deleted that and settled for “best revenge.” This entry brought up over one million hits, but Goodwin found what he was looking for in a matter of minutes: “Living Well is the Best Revenge.” When he linked into the site of the same name, Goodwin was surprised to learn that the oft-quoted phrase was not of modem vintage, (many had credited it to the fashion designer, Bill Blass) but was first coined by the English clergyman and metaphysical poet named George Herbert, (
The Temple: Sacred Poems – 1633
)

Goodwin thought it unlikely that Mr. Herbert would have guessed that almost half a millennium later his little observation would become the buzz words for those poor unsuspecting saps like himself who, via a friend, voice mail, email, posted note, hand delivered complaint for divorce or in some rare instances via a personal face to face announcement, suddenly discovered that they had been deported from the state of matrimony by a spouse who had chosen to leave for greener pastures. Mr. Herbert’s advice, Goodwin decided, was actually quite good. It was inspirational in fact, but needed to be tweaked ever so slightly to fit his situation. “Fucking well is the best revenge” worked perfectly.

It was the first time since learning about Sheila’s departure that he smiled. Thinking that he was indeed a clever lad by conjuring this phrase, he typed the notation into the Google search engine only to find that there were already 5000 entries for it. The search result confirmed what Goodwin already knew: any ideas that he thought were original were thought of before by many other people.

The next few nights Goodwin began to scour clubs and bars in midtown Manhattan in search of someone who might be his revenge partner. He soon found, however, that he had no luck or enthusiasm for his project. While he was quick witted and charming with women at his club, women whom he had known for many years, women married to his friends, women having no amorous interest in him, safe women,
within the confines of an unfamiliar and overcrowded bar where his ultimate goal was a sexual liaison, whenever he attempted to make initial small talk with women whom he did not know he was tentative and not very confident. Goodwin attributed part of this to the fact that all of the women he met were at least a decade and a half younger than he was and all, it seemed, spoke about rock groups or entertainers whose names Goodwin had never heard of before.

The inability to recognize the names of certain celebrities they mentioned was consistent with a formula Goodwin had devised in jest for his friends over 50. He called the formula the “People’s Magazine Theorem.” His formula: Percentage of Celebrities You Know in a particular People Magazine (or InStyle, Star Magazine, US Weekly, or OK Magazine) equals the number of pages in the magazine divided by your age. Given his current encounters and his meager recognition factor, he decided that the numerator in his equation should actually be his age plus 10 years.

For the first three nights of his quest he found himself not between the sheets with a young and sexy glam-puss, but on the hard plastic seat of the 11 pm Long Island Railroad. His sense of disappointment on these evenings was magnified because each night the train seemed to be filled with bubbly suburban couples that had attended the opera, Broadway shows, or some other typical New York event. It wasn’t that he really missed Sheila or mourned her loss; he didn’t. Goodwin missed the life they led as a couple, a life he knew was no longer possible. Like a number of couples he knew their marriage had evolved only to a marriage of convenience. Now, the convenience was gone.

On each of his rides home, Goodwin recognized a few of the couples on the train, but they seemed to avert their eyes when he looked at them. “Just as well,” he thought. He didn’t want to rehash Sheila’s departure either. After four days on what he called his “sexual liaison trail,” he gave up.

Goodwin’s decision was not only prompted by his inability to interact with the women he encountered. He simply couldn’t keep up with their drinking. He was amazed by the amount of alcohol many of them consumed. Goodwin would get heady after one martini. He
didn’t even like martinis, but that’s what every one of these women were drinking. More often than not the drinks were exotically flavored martinis. “What?” a young woman said to him incredulously, “You’ve never had a bacotini?” which she explained was bacon favored martini. He joked that he was Kosher, but she took the remark at face value and simply replied with a muted “Oh.”

Upon reflection, Goodwin realized that he really was not truly interested in a sexual dalliance with a woman to whom he had been exposed to for no more than the length of time it took for her to consume a few martinis. What he was really looking for was a woman with whom he could talk, possibly entertain with his wit and perhaps be entertained by her wit; in short a woman to whom he could relate. Thus, when he entered the bar section of the Gramercy Tavern restaurant in Manhattan several weeks later, his interest was social, not sexual, intercourse.

Goodwin scanned the busy and festive bar in the restaurant’s front room for a place between two people with whom he might share some easy conversation and spotted a woman whose appearance almost knocked him off his feet. She was seated upon a high, tufted, bar stool. Her long and tanned legs were crossed and exposed well above her knees. He pegged her at about 45. Had she been younger and less athletically built, she could have been a high fashion model.

As soon as he saw her, Goodwin felt a strange sensation in his loins. Goodwin knew that strange sensations in a man’s loins when he was 50 or older could relate to an incipient kidney stone, an enlarged prostate, lust, or a combination of all of the above. He reviewed these options, decided it was merely lust, and walked over to her. He later said of this meeting, “It’s hard to fully articulate how her looks drew me in. There was just a certain strong allure about her, a magnetism that immediately took hold of me in a very powerful way. Until I saw her, I never believed the cliché ‘love at first sight.’ I don’t think I was there yet, though I might have been. All I know is that when I saw her my whole psyche went ‘Wow!’ I might have even shuddered. I think I heard some music and saw a spotlight shining down on her, but looking back I really don’t know if this was simply a hallucination or romanticized a recollection.”

For an instant Goodwin’s amorous enthusiasm was tempered by his recollection of a warning from Kass, who had been married three times, fallen in love on the rebound with virtually the first woman that paid some attention to him, only to have a disastrous and failed relationship. “Look, buddy boy,” Kass advised, “take it from one who knows. When you are on the rebound, and I’ve been there enough times to know, don’t fall in the love with the first woman that flutters her eyelids at you or shows you a little thigh. It will only lead to disaster. Believe me. You’re not in love. You just have a case of rebounditis.” The problem with Kass’ sage advice was that it was incomplete. Kass forgot to warn Goodwin that those infected by rebounditis never know they have it until it’s too late. Goodwin walked up to the conveniently vacated seat next to her, “Is anyone seated here?”

The woman touched his arm and smiled as if something amusing had just occurred to her or as if she was about to make mischief. “Well,” she said, “I was waiting for someone special and here you are.”

Goodwin felt a small surge of warmth wash over him like a sudden fever, in this case a very nice fever. She laughed, “You’re blushing.” Goodwin noted with a degree of pleasant satisfaction that her hand was still on his arm.

“Where is glibness when you really need it,” he replied.

She smiled, “I’m sorry. I’ve always been extremely forward. And, my hand on your arm isn’t polite of me. It’s just that I’m a very tactile person.”

“So am I. And I find your tactile nature very touching.”

She smiled, “Very good, a hint of glibness. But you don’t mind that I’m very forward do you?”

“Absolutely not.” This spec of conversation and transient physical contact was enough for Goodwin to conclude that they had already connected.

“My name is Sophie D’Amour.”

Goodwin noticed that her voice was different than most of the women he knew. It was deep and throaty, sexy. He was close enough to Sophie to receive the full embrace of her perfume and was struck by its potency, a wonderful mixture of aromas, like Vogue Magazine’s
December Christmas issue filled to the brim with lots of scented perfume ads. He wasn’t used to its deep, intoxicating aroma because Sheila had taken to wearing only light perfume. “Perfume spritzers” he would call them. Sheila disavowed heavy perfume because she thought it might adversely affect her weight.

Goodwin noticed that she had been on her iPhone. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“Oh, that’s no problem at all. I just got this a few hours ago. It’s the latest version of the iPhone 10 GS. I heard that with the next version you will be able to get an App to communicate with your dead uncle, and conference in God.

Though he knew she was joking, Goodwin said reflexively, “Seriously?”

She began to laugh. “No, of course not. I’m just kidding. Oh, my. I made you blush again. It is truly an amazing piece of equipment, but it sometimes tends to isolate you.”

“Isolate?”

“Sure, look around. Every single person in this restaurant who is by himself is not looking around or talking to his neighbors. He is totally engrossed in his electronic, virtual life, not in the life around him; me included, until you came along.”

He liked the way she said that last phrase. It had the underlying tone of “I’m glad you are here.” As he looked around the bar and the restaurant, he realized that she was absolutely right. Without exception, everyone who was alone, and many couples who were together, were emailing, texting or connected to some App and not with each other. “Wow. I see what you mean.”

“It’s incredible. There are now tens of millions of applications for the iPhone and some for the oddest things. I was loading some normal Apps on my phone, for example for the New York Times and Fandango and then I stumbled upon one called, ‘PEP.’”

“For more energy?”

She became hysterical and was laughing so hard that she put her hand on his thigh for support. He felt the sensation in his loins growing. Recovering her composure she said, “That’s what I thought. And,
I suppose in a tangential way, a very tangential way, it relates to energy. But PEP means, in this case, “Premature Ejaculation Preventer.” Before Goodwin could say, “You’re kidding,” which was forming on his lips she continued, “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not kidding. They have an App for everything else, so why not this. Here see for yourself.”

Goodwin read: “If you believe your lover is about to have a premature ejaculation and you wanted to prevent this, click on any one of the images and show it to him immediately. These images have been tested thoroughly at the PEP Institute and found to be 100 percent effective in preventing this malady.”

Goodwin pressed the first one and saw a photograph of Mother Theresa crying. Amazingly he immediately noticed a diminution of the strange but pleasant feeling in his groin.

“What are the others?”

“I haven’t checked all of them, but I have a friend who used the one of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Ave Maria successfully on several occasions,” she replied nonchalantly. “Unfortunately,” she continued, “one of my friend’s dates had a strong choir fetish and, well, you can imagine. It was a real mess.” He wasn’t sure if she was serious or kidding, but from her slight smile he assumed she was joking.

The final notation of the App was rather startling. “If none of these images work, go to our other App called ‘Electronic Cattle Prod.’”

After laughing and some light banter, Goodwin said: “So tell me, Sophie, what you do?”

“Well, I am an attorney. I went to Harvard Law School, was third in my class, editor of the law review, clerked for a Supreme Court justice, and then became a hardcore litigator in a large prestigious law firm. I loved the work, billed 3000 hours a year and somehow became the firm’s in house expert on trial procedure and evidence. The only downside is that as an associate your life is entirely devoted to the firm. Your life outside the firm is pretty insignificant and this often impacts on getting involved in a long-term relationship. So, after 10 years of high paid slavery, I was on the cusp of being made a partner, literally minutes away. But it never happened and now I work for a small firm
helping abused women and children and the shelters in which they live.”

For the first time since they met, Sophie’s mood changed. She was quite serious and somewhat emotional. “These women and their children are often victimized in unspeakable ways by their husbands or boyfriends and the system set up to protect them often doesn’t work at all. They are people who simply fall through the cracks, with no family or support system, government or otherwise. I do whatever I can for them; sometimes even give them my own money.”

“That’s pretty noble of you. I suppose you took a hit on salary.”